


Emotion Leads To Mistakes

by predatoryfox



Category: Joan Ferguson - Fandom, Wentworth (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4677578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predatoryfox/pseuds/predatoryfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A view into major memories in Joan's past.<br/>Her past has shaped her into the damaged, lashing creature she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lawrence Ferguson, a tall, steely-eyed man had gravitas, that could not be argued. Women loved him, men wanted to be him, and he thought himself a god. He was charming when it suited him, and had no problem spinning the truth to allow himself to be seen in his best light. As a high-ranking retired military personnel, he understood that life was best regimented and misconduct, no matter how minor, was to be handled with immediate and severe punishment. Lawrence believed that the only person he had to answer to was St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.  
When Lawrence married, he saw it as a mark in his timeline that he could finally check off. His duty was to find an attractive partner, marry her and have her bear his children. Lawrence mentally congratulated himself when his wife announced her pregnancy. He knew that since his wife worshiped the very ground he walked on, she would teach their children to do the same, and this gave him pride. It wasn't until his daughter was born, did he notice that a baby took away the attention he expected, and although he loved his offspring, he was blindingly jealous. Lawrence Ferguson cheated on his wife for the first time when Joan, his daughter, was three months old because his wife was just too tired.

Two year old Joan knew that her fingernails needed to be clean, her room needed to be tidied several times a day, and that she was to never raise her voice or fit in front of her father. She was his little recruit and would sit beside him with her own wash-leather shining up her Mary Janes as he polished his oxfords to a high sheen. She thought her father was the most handsome man in the world, and as her mother constantly reminded her, he was the most clever, most courageous, most loved man that ever lived . Joan attributed the fact that he sometimes made her mother cry was because she deserved it, same as when Joan did not respect his wishes.

When Joan was three, her mother died of a brain aneurysm in her sleep. Joan's father called her to the room and told her that her mother was gone. When Joan tugged at her mother's hand and asked to wake up, her father simply took her hand away and told her to stop. Joan’s father would not hug her when she cried at her mother’s bedside; he would only look at her with detachment and blame. Joan learned then that she couldn’t rely on her father for comfort. It was only after her well of tears dried up and only hiccups remained, long after the body had been taken away to the morgue, that her father held her hand and told her to be strong for the both of them. A small child cannot process death, but they can process abandonment and Joan was motherless. At three, Joan learned early that weakness was a defect of character. 

Joan was four when her father locked her in the broom cupboard under the stairs for the better part of the day. Joan had been playing with the tinned food cans from the cupboards and was building a castle with a moat. She was pretending that the knights were defending the castle from a fearsome dragon, when her father came in to see the chaos on the kitchen floor. Joan's father did not like disorder. In fact, disorder made him irritable. "Clear this up", he'd ordered. Joan had a lapse in judgement and chose to ignore his command. Her father gave her one chance to clear up her mess and apologize, but when Joan got angry and began to yell and fit because she was not finished playing, her father picked her up by the arm, still screaming, and dragged her to the broom cupboard which was filled with spiders and the smell of bleach. "I'm doing this because I love you", he'd said through the door. "I'm doing this so you'll learn control. Life without control is a dangerous thing, Joan". Joan's yelling died down and then out not long after she heard the latch lock. She would learn control because her father loved her and like any small child should, Joan loved her father and wanted to please him. Joan spent the afternoon daydreaming about white kittens, while pulling the legs off the spiders racing by her feet. When her father finally opened the cupboard door close to bedtime, she smiled up at him to prove that she was calm and collected. "I feel better now, Daddy." 

The winter of Joan's 5th year is when she caught scarlet fever. Her father kept telling her to perk up and soldier through her illness. He brought her cold facecloths, let her listen to the radio and patted her arm when she cried out in her delirium for her mother. Joan suffered through two full days with a temperature of 105F before her maternal grandmother showed up at the house to take care of her. Nanna Graham called the doctor round to get her medicine, sang softly to her, cradled her head and fed her soup. Nanna Graham filled the nurturing void that Joan missed so dearly. At night, she would sleep in bed with Joan and tell her stories before she'd fall asleep about her mother when she was a child. Joan loved Nanna with every fiber of her being and hoped that she could stay with her forever.  
One night when Joan had pulled through the worst of it, she could hear her father arguing with Nanna in the kitchen. Her father wanted Nanna to go home and mind her own business, but Nanna Graham let her father know that Joan was wilting under his care. Joan cringed when she heard the slap and Nanna Graham cry out.  
In the morning, when Joan got up, Nanna was gone and had not said goodbye. Her father refused to answer why she was not allowed to call Nanna Graham, and soon Joan stopped asking. Four months later, Nanna Graham was dead of a heart attack. Joan did not grieve this loss around her father.

Joan's distaste for other children began when she entered kindergarten. Her father had taught her that a good child was obedient, clean, and quiet. Her classmates were none of these things and it greatly disturbed her. Her young teacher could barely control the room, and the outbursts from the others made Joan's mind hurt. She tried very hard to be controlled, and listen to everything Miss said, but sometimes the pain was just too much and she had to lash out and hit another student when they were being too naughty just to restore order. Because of this, the other girls did not want to be friends with her, which seemed to suit Joan just fine. Her father reminded her that she was better than the other girls, and that is why they did not want to be her friends. Her father said that he was her friend, and that should suffice.  
Joan spent her 6th year never attending a birthday party, or giggling in secret, or learning how to bake. Joan came home everyday after school and sat at her father's feet while he read Tolstoy, Hemmingway, and Chekhov aloud. She did not really understand what was being read, but her father's voice soothed her and lulled her into a deep sense of calm.


	2. Chapter 2

Joan's first and only slumber party was when she was 7. A popular girl in her class invited all the little girls over to her house for her birthday party and so Joan, who was never invited to anything, was reluctantly included. Her father was so glad that Joan was getting out of the house, and making an effort to be social. He bought her new pajamas, a bright green sleeping bag sporting a ridiculous looking Bugs Bunny on it, and made sure to pick up a dish of sweeties at the bakery before dropping her off at the house. He'd congratulated himself as well for making sure Joan went there with her best foot forward. On the car drive there he'd reminded Joan to make sure to smile a lot, to use her manners and to compliment the host. The whole car ride there Joan contemplated jumping out onto the highway.  
She spent the afternoon on the outskirts of the gaggle of girls who talked about horses, braided each others hair, and made high pitch squeals that hurt Joan's ears. She couldn't help but disagreeing with a lot of what the girls said because Joan knew they were spouting incorrect information, and her pained smile soon hurt her face so she left it alone. She tried hard to laugh when she thought it was appropriate, and interrupted conversation to let them know she went to the race track with her father. Joan wouldn't let anyone touch her hair, but no one offered anyway.  
It wasn't until everyone was lying on the living room floor in their sleeping bags, that Joan could hear some girls whispering and realized they were whispering about her. They'd called her weird. They said she laughed when things weren't even funny. They asked the host why they'd invited Joan anyway, since everyone knew no one liked her.  
Joan said nothing, but took her sleeping bag and went to find the host's mother. She politely asked if she could call her father to go home because she wasn't feeling well.  
Those girls had really hurt her because she'd tried so hard, but the look of disappointment on her father's face and the drawn-out sigh made her lie and say she had a wonderful time. She vowed to herself that those girls would pay for making her feel so inadequate. 

Joan's father started taking Joan to his fencing spars when she was 8 years old. He taught at the studio as well, but in the evening he liked participating in a hobby where he knew he excelled.  
Joan loved to sit in the stands and watch the light glint off the sabres during their assault. If Joan quieted her mind, she could force it to slow down the actions she saw before her. When she watched a spar in slow-motion, she could study the dance movements like leaves in the wind. This skill allowed her to usually predict how the match would end, but she chose not to share this information for fear that her father would call her mad. She absolutely fell in love with the sport that was so graceful, yet so quiet. It was so unlike the screaming foolishness of the footy games in the school yard or of the jeers from the other girls when she couldn't get her body to cooperate during gym class.  
She knew not to cheer because it distracted her father, but she would proudly beam when her father's lunge would result in the harsh buzz announcing the end of the round. Her father had been a fencing Olympian long before Joan was born, she knew this. She also knew that because of an accident at work that damaged her father's back, her father refused to do more than spar at the fencing studio close to home because he did not want to tarnish his name by being less able than he once was.  
Joan loved the drive home after her father had finished undefeated. He would sing opera to her and thank her for being good luck. If he had lost more than once though, the drive home resulted in dreadful silence, occasionally punched with curses that Joan distracted him or that the opponent had cheated. On these nights, she knew to go straight from the car to bed so that her father could drink at the kitchen table in silence. Joan was glad that her father was a very talented fencer.

Lawrence Ferguson fell in love again when Joan was 9. Joan could barely remember her mother. She knew by looking at pictures that her mother had been beautiful and sad. Joan just hoped that Antonia Jesper was kind and made her father happy.  
Joan was aware of the long string of women's voices that called the house since her mother had died, and the occasional individual who would creep out of the house before dawn, but her father had never introduced Joan to another woman before with the intent that she would be living with them. Antonia moved in with just two suitcases and a son who resembled a bulldog.  
Antonia was nice enough. She laughed too loud, wore too much perfume and complained about her son a lot, but Joan figured having someone else in the house was a nice change. Joan found out later from her new roommate that her father's new girlfriend was still married, and had left her husband because Joan's father was simply too addictive, just like her gambling.  
Nils Jesper was 3 years older than Joan, and she found him fascinating. He walked with a swagger, his face always wore a scowl and his own mother was afraid of him. Best of all, her father thought Nils was someone Joan should learn from. Her father had insisted that she watch Nils' every move. "He commands authority, Joan", his father had said, "no one messes with that boy."  
Antonia didn't last long, but Joan did learn a lot of things from Nils. Nils the liar, Nils the thief, Nils the deviant, Nils who knew who he was. Joan was now able to pick a lock, lie with a straight face, and find the weakness in others by insulting someone until you found the thing that made them cry. Once Nils had hit a boy who had been teasing Joan. He'd wanted her desserts for a week as payment, but Joan was happy to oblige.  
Nils had been surprised that a girl, and a daughter of a a retired major general at that, was so interested in what Nils had to say or to show her. He did not know that Joan had no friends or platonic relationships to speak of, so he just figured Joan had a harmless crush on him. Joan saw Nils as an important stepping stone in being able to get what she wanted in life.  
Long after he had moved out, Joan still considered him a useful ally. 

When Joan turned ten, her father announced that she was ready to begin attending the fencing studio as his student. Her birthday gift was a full fencing kit and a foil. Joan was overjoyed.  
She loved everything about fencing: how the French words sounded in her mouth, how the foils shined in the light, and especially how her father looked at her during a spar when he thought she wasn't watching. When Joan had the mask down and the foil in hand, she was truly balletic. At home, she imagined her footing and lithe movements. She spent a lot of time shining her foil and thinking about how she might defeat her next opponent. Fencing gave her a sense of power, and best of all, no one could see her pained expression under the birdcage as she forced her mind to be still. Her walls soon bore certificates and medals, and Joan fell asleep every night counting each and every one and remembering the sour expression on her opponent's face when their masks were torn off. Joan's father smiled at her more often now. Fencing had changed her life for the better. 

When Joan was eleven she found a Playboy magazine in the woods behind her house. Her eyes widened at the beautiful woman on the cover. Her large bared breasts, the mound of tightly curled hair and her creamy white thighs, parted and pillowy gave Joan an odd feeling in her guts. She stuck the magazine down the back of her pants and ran for the house with the speed of a young creature needing to explore a treasure. She found the house in silence, and closed herself in her bedroom closet with a flashlight. She knew her father called these women diseased whores, but she did not know why, which made this discovery like uncovering an ancient artifact. Joan turned the pages carefully and took inventory of the angles and curves and faces of the women on the pages. They did not look like sick women to her. They looked beautiful and sure of themselves as they stared back at her.  
The closet door suddenly flew open and there stood her father. Joan tried to hide what she had found, but her father had already noticed. Joan knew not to try and make excuses. She knew just to brace herself.  
Hot tears ran down her face, betraying her will as her father beat her around the head with the rolled-up magazine. Her ears rang as he heaved in staccato, "No.daughter.of.mine.will.look.at.this.filth! This.is.filth.Joan. You.are.filthy. Do.you.understand?" Joan said nothing. "Sick minds find this filth fascinating!" he'd spit at her, "filthy, sick, weak mind!" He gave her one final wrack before he left.  
That night in bed Joan seethed at herself. She was mad at the feelings that magazine made her feel, at her weak mind, and most of all the fact that she still found those women beautiful. 

Nils came in handy for the first time when Joan was twelve. It was during that year that Joan spent a lot of time practicing facial expressions in front of the mirror. She realized that to fit in and push ahead, she would have to learn how to mimic. Being able to smile on command, to look sympathetic, to appear interested, were all things that Joan had trouble with around other children her age. She figured if she could be accepted by others, her life would get easier. Learning how to manipulate her face turned out to be easier than she'd expected.  
Joan used her new skills to stroke the ego of her teachers so that they'd see her as harmless. She complimented girls she hated with a genuine smile. She happily offered up homework to others, and gave away her goodies at lunch to kids who'd once ignored her. Joan did not have friends, but she was no longer a social outcast.  
She's poked through her father's Rolodex one night and found surprisingly that Antonia Jesper's phone number was still there. She'd called when her father had been out for the evening, and had asked Nils to buy cigarettes for her. He'd been surprised to hear from her, but he did remember the dark-eyed, serious girl that looked at him with admiration. She told him she'd pay for the cigarettes with the birthday money she'd been saving. He'd agreed and left them in a paper sack on Joan's doorstep in the early morning before her father was out of bed.  
That year, when Joan was twelve, she picked the locks on some lockers and slid those cigarettes into the bags of the girls who had mocked her during the slumber party she'd attended when she was a girl. She bid her time, but she wanted to wait until she was ready . Joan went to the teacher who liked her the most, and with a mask of worry she'd reported that she was had seen some girls smoking in the bathroom.  
A locker inspection was carried out by the principal and when those girls cried and insisted that the cigarettes weren't theirs and bawled when they were given suspensions and told they wouldn't be able to attend the school festival, Joan felt very warm inside. She realized she had a power within her.


	3. Chapter 3

In the mildew-tainted smell of Joan's gym showers at school, she truly noticed for the first time that the bodies of her school mates looked nothing like hers. Her thirteen year old eyes took stock of the young bodies beginning to bud, and was reminded how her own body was betraying her by staying child-like. She liked how these girls walked around unabashedly, unafraid of their nakedness. Joan, who was so noticeable, tried very hard to hide herself during these times. She did not want the other girls to see her so vulnerable and unlike them. It was during Joan's quick glances that the jeers started,  
"Hey, Joan, what are you looking at?"  
"Joan, you weirdo, you like looking at girls?"  
"Lesbian, lesbian, lesbian!"  
Joan put her hands over her ears and tried to disappear into the floor. The chant of 'lesbian' only became stronger and louder and she began to cry. "I'm not...I'm not..." she whimpered. She was only looking. She was only seeing what she did not have. She remembered that her father had called lesbians disgusting women who stole wives from honest, God-fearing men, and that women-lovers would be going straight to hell for polluting his community. "I'm not..." She loathed those girls. She imagined sticking her fingers into their eyes. She didn't want to go to hell. She just wanted to look.

Lawrence Ferguson's mental state started to deteriorate when Joan turned fourteen. He began to drink more heavily, and retreated into his study anytime he was not out fencing or talking long walks in the woods. Lawrence began to become extremely irritated when the house was not spotless, and would accuse Joan of leaving a mess simply to make him angry. Lawrence had fired their housekeeper as he believed that she was stealing from them.  
Joan realized that if clean surfaces and order made her father appeased, then it would be all she would care about. She became obsessed with being clean herself, and so her hands were always cracked from washing up, she smelled faintly of pine, and she began to worry while she was at school if the trinkets on their shelves were collecting dust.  
If she wasn't able to iron his shirts perfectly, her father had started hitting her in the back of the legs with the metal end of their fly swatter. "Maybe this will remind you," he'd yell when she apologized for not putting in enough starch. The scars that formed on the backs of her legs taught very quickly to iron with military preciseness.  
Joan concluded that if she were clean, kept things organized, and she learned to ignore pain, her father might stop drinking and yelling. Seeing him as anything but focused and sharp greatly distressed her.  
In that difficult year where her father would sometimes cry out in the night, Joan would burn herself with matches on the soles of her feet or give herself paper cuts in between her fingers. The pain during the day from these wounds would remind her that she had to live through it to learn how to be stronger. Sometimes she'd bite herself, or pinch until she'd bleed and while doing so would imagine doing these things to the people who had humiliated, ignored, or hurt her. Joan taught herself to disassociate from the pain and after a while began to enjoy the ritual just to see how much she could take. It was during one of these sessions that her father had walked in to see her smiling while burning herself. Joan had been imagining burning the girls at school with cigarettes until they'd screamed mercy. He'd come over and taken her hands in his, "please," was all he'd said then left the room. She realized after she had heard Lawrence crying in his room that these sessions would have to stop, and she would have to resort to imagining hurting others in her mind to create the sense of calm she found she needed.  
It was after viewing that session that Lawrence realized there was something wrong with his daughter.

Joan was invited to her first Spring formal when she was sixteen years old. A boy at school, a fairly well-known boy at that, had approached her in the hallway and asked if she'd go as his date. Joan knew that she'd heard other girls talk about him, so if she went, it would be bliss to see the looks on their faces. Joan didn't think to wonder why he'd asked her. She was simply glad that she could tell her father that he she had been noticed, and he could stop asking when she'd start going on dates.  
When she got home from school that day and told him, her father's face lit up, which caused Joan's heart to sing. "We'll go out and get you a new dress," he'd said, 'you'll surprise them all." Joan's happiness could barely be contained and at dinner that night she'd given her father extra dessert and made sure to show great interest when he told her about his day.  
The days leading up to the formal were elating. Her father had taken Joan out to buy a beautiful jade-green dress. He'd let her get her hair cut, and buy a tube of pink lipstick. The boy at school smiled at her in the hall and had said a few times, "can't wait for the dance, can you, Joan?"  
In her green dress, her jet black hair flowing around her shoulders, Joan waited patiently by the living room window for her date to arrive. Time passed, her makeup started to melt, and no one showed. At first she thought that he was held up, but when the time of the dance came and went and she still stood, her father put a hand on her shoulder with a sigh, "maybe it's for the best, Joan. We'll return the dress in the morning." She stood in the shower as hot as it would go and let her shame and disappointment turn to anger. The next morning at school, Joan approached the boy who never showed to ask him where he'd been. He was standing with his friends, who elbowed each other and snickered, "Like I'd actually be seen with you, you ugly fucking Goliath," he snarled.  
When Joan became cognizant she heard her headmaster's muted voice, "We simply cannot have females going around breaking noses, Mr. Ferguson. I mean, Jesus, that boy is a mess. I don't know what happened between them, but what Joan did reflects poorly on her and on her upbringing. I know she doesn't have a mother, but that is no excuse for her behavior. I ask that you speak with her about what happened today and if it happens again, she will be suspended for an extended period of time." Joan could hardly breathe.  
Her father hadn't said a word since they'd left the headmaster's office but he had placed his hand on her knee on the drive home. Joan felt like he must have been glad that she'd defended her honor, but when they pulled into the driveway, her father leaned over and very calmly said, "Joan, if you ever embarrass me like that again, you will not live to regret it. You need to restrain yourself. Learn to control your anger before it controls you." He did not look at her and stepped out of the car.  
It was only when she got to her room and looked in the mirror that she noticed the smears of blood staining her uniform.

Joan graduated in the top 10 of her year. Memorization was easy, and she had a knack for writing what she knew each teacher wanted. In her final year of school, the students would part in her wake, because they had seen her strength the year before. That boy's nose healed at the disturbing angle of a veteran boxer. She liked the solitude that outburst had earned her, and the twisted sense of respect she had gained. She knew the others talked behind her back, but they were simply amoeba in a swirling pool of hormones and sweat. They mattered not. She was destined for great things, she knew it deep in her gut.  
Joan did not apply to a single College or University, despite her marks and her father's insistence. The thought of living in a dormitory; of learning she was just average instead of brilliant; of being forced to join study groups or social clubs; of leaving the familiarity and security of her room and her father made her chest feel extremely tight. She promised her father that she would work for a year, and then apply the following year, knowing full well she had no interest in doing so. Her father gave her the keys to a new car as her graduation present, and they would spend evenings on the highways, listening to classical music. Joan didn't even mind when Lawrence would bark at her and slap her leg when her driving made him anxious, because this time was also a gift from him where they could sit in near silence and enjoy each others company. It was the summer after Joan graduated at 17 that her father started inviting Nils over to drink and play cards at their kitchen table. He had said that Nils needed a positive male role-model, but when Joan closed her eyes in the darkness of her room to hear better, she knew they discussed violent, forceful things. Lawrence approved of Nils' matter-of-factness and his even temper, something Lawrence was losing.


	4. Chapter 4

The year after Joan graduated, she found herself working in a library. She loved the silence that was expected of the patrons, and the orderly system needed to shelve books and retrieve titles through the microfiche. She had been trusted enough to be given the task of picking up the daily magazines from the news stand on her way to work, and prepare coffee for the employees at lunch. Joan's favorite part of the job though was, her boss, Ms. Bedel.  
Deliah Bedel was older, self-assured, firm and presented herself in a way that demanded your full attention. Ms. Bedel smiled at Joan often, and at times would squeeze Joan's shoulder to let her know that she was pleased with her. Joan loved that even though Ms. Bedel was quite tall, she still wore high heels and dressed mostly in pencil skirts and bow neck blouses. She was so stunning that Joan found that looking at her too long was like gazing into the sun. Joan wished many times that she could be more like Deliah, but she knew she was far too plain and the only time she felt self-assured was with a foil in hand.  
On occasion, when the library would close, Deliah would recite poetry to the general pubic and Joan would always attend to show her moral support. While words poured out of Deliah's mouth like smoke, Joan felt the strong urge to be at Deliah's feet. To just be close to her made Joan happy.  
Soon Joan found herself mimicking Deliah's walk, and decided to go out and buy high heels so that she was towering. This decision made her realize that her height could be used as a point of power. If people had to look up at her to speak to her, she had a vantage point. Deliah had unknowingly given Joan a stepping stool towards shedding her fear of being different than most women she met.  
Joan didn't realize then that instead of wanting to _be _Deliah Bedel, she wanted to be with her.__  
The day that Ms. Bedel announced she would soon be a Mrs., Joan knew she had to quit. She couldn't understand her jealousy, and it frightened her.  
One day not long after, Ms. Bedel's fiancé found a dead cat in the front seat of his locked car.

On Joan's nineteenth birthday, her father brought someone to dinner. Her father had promised that it would be a nice occasion, and Joan used some of her pocket money to have her makeup done at a department store. She knew that her father had made reservations at a posh restaurant, and she was excited to be out with him because beside her handsome father who only seemed to get better looking with age, people couldn't help but look at her too. She loved when her father would take her out to dinner, although it didn't happen often, because he would be in a good mood and would not smell of alcohol. He would sometimes tell her she looked nice, and would introduce her as his daughter and fencing protege, which delighted her.  
Her father had asked Joan to meet him at the restaurant, but when she was led to their table she saw that a woman, not much older than her, was sitting where Joan should have been.  
"Joan, this is Candace. I invited her to dinner with us. I thought an extra friendly face would be nice." Lawrence knew Joan knew better than to question him, especially in public. Joan shook her hand, smiled politely then hid her scowl behind her menu.  
This new blonde flirted with the waiter, had her hands all over her father and ignored Joan when it should have been _her _night. It took all of Joan's mental strength not to flip the table and storm out. How could this nitwit steal her father when she needed him? Joan spent her birthday dinner planning on how she would evict this _thing _from their lives.____  
Late that night while she was in her room reading, she could hear the grunts and noises of passion and it make her both jealous and nauseous. She took the watch off that her father had given her for her birthday and threw it in the waste bin.  
After that birthday supper, Joan spent more time at the fencing studio to vent her aggression and to spend time with her father, undisturbed by Candace the slag. Her father had stopped asking her to attend College, because Joan promised to start training under his tutelage to train for the Olympic fencing team. She couldn't see why telling him that lie was any more damaging that telling him that she had no intention of leaving home or this studio.

The next year Joan had done two things: won Candace's trust, and had plaques for Gold in the National Opens Foil and State Championships. The first achievement had been more difficult than the others. Her father was so pleased with her progress.  
Joan had spent a lot of time watching the slag's body language, and how she reacted when her father touched or fawned upon her. Because of the skills Joan had taught herself in the past, she could easily do theater mask work to laugh, tease, and flatter. She'd let Candace do her hair, borrow her car and when she had time enough to prepare herself, she'd offer Candace a back massage when her father was out. All of these things made Joan want to douse herself in rubbing alcohol, but she got through it because she had a plan.  
It wasn't long before Joan was able to convince Candace to stay in for drinks on a Friday night while her father went out to a poker game. Joan was a very large woman and Candace was the size of a shrew, so it was very easy to get her very drunk before Joan even felt a buzz. She pretended to laugh when Candace began to make jokes about Joan's father, stating that he was a tiger in bed and that she wished he was home because liquor made her frisky. Joan knew this from her observations in the past months that when the slag and her father drank together, it wouldn't be long before Joan would have to take a drive or a walk to avoid the noises that would follow.  
Joan plied Candace with more liquor and then suggested she give her a back rub, since she was sure Candace had had a very difficult week working on her feet as a hairdresser. The drunk slag gladly shrugged off her shirt with a giggle and allowed Joan to begin rubbing her shoulders. It took everything she had every single time that she did this, not to wrap her hands around Candace's tiny neck and squeeze the life out of her. This time though, she was not disgusted because this would be the last time she'd have to do it, she was sure of it.  
When the slag's head started lolling around like a dying balloon and knew Joan had to take action. She leaned down and started kissing Candace's shoulders and smiled to herself when there was no resistance. She worked her way to the neck and just when Candace both moaned and begin to protest, Joan hooked on hard and sucked, leaving multiple lovebites. Once the marks had been left, she immediately stopped and helped the slag back into her shirt and helped her into bed. "You're very drunk, Candace, maybe it's best if you sleep it off."  
The next morning when Candace would not get out of bed and Joan and her father were eating breakfast she donned another theater mask and sobbed that Candace had a man over the night before and begged Joan not to tell. Lawrence, of course, did not believe her but Joan told her that she had noticed marks on his girlfriend's neck.  
Joan smiled darkly out her bedroom window as Lawrence set fire to Candace's clothes on their front lawn, and the slag cried and swore that there was no man, that it had been Lawrence's own daughter. Lawrence had slapped her around a few times, but had made sure to get rid of her before the police were called.  
Joan had won.

An event that would change Joan would happen when she was walking home from the studio one evening. Joan's insides felt they would split in two, but even with the disgust and pain and anger within her, she dared not move against the knife at her back.  
She was not scared, just overwhelmed by how helpless she felt, and wished so desperately that inside her held a bear trap that could end it.  
On an evening walk when Joan was twenty-one, a man from town had approached her and asked for directions, but when she dug through her bag for pen and paper, he stuck a knife against her side and told her to join him in the alley or he'd gut her like a pig.  
The grunts; the threats; the sickening sound of flesh slapping up against flesh; the sour smell of body odor all made Joan want to scream. The rape didn't last long, and Joan had trained herself against pain, but she had a hard time disassociating from what was being done to her. Her father hurt her to correct her mistakes, to make her a better individual, but how was this to make her learn?  
When she got home she threw her clothes in the garbage and stood in the shower until the hot water ran out and her lips turned blue. Joan felt numb. She tentatively put her hand between her legs where it hurt and found that she was bleeding. She could not stop replaying what had happened to her in her head and wondered why he had picked her. She was too tall, too plain, too angry to draw attention. Why her?  
Joan decided she had to tell her father what had happened to her so someone could offer advice or words of support on how to end the replaying movie in her head. Joan did not go into detail, but described the man and asked her father if it was right that she was so shamed at not fighting back.  
Lawrence sat in silence until Joan said her piece. He told her that there were worse things happening to people all over the world and her best course of action would be to pretend it never happened at all. If she forced herself into believing it didn't happen, then she would regain what she had lost. Joan could not believe that he did not feel more strongly that her virginity had been stolen.   
A few days later, when Joan was driving through town, she nearly crashed into the car ahead at the stop light. Standing on the sidewalk was the man who had forced himself inside her. He had a badly swollen face, a neck brace and his arm in a cast. He looked like he'd been thrown to the wolves. Joan smiled quietly to herself. She was not scared of him. When she got home and told her father what she had seen he did not look at her. He seemed angry that she would be glad. "An act against my flesh deserves retribution. Learn though, Joan, to use the tools around you. Certain people can be very useful tools for a price. Keeping your hands clean will keep you from becoming Lady McBeth."


	5. Chapter 5

The National Governing Board easily accepted Joan into training camp. She had earned her spot with her long list of accomplishments, as well as having a former Olympian for a coach. At twenty-three, Joan was quite a bit older than the other athletes, but she had more experience than the lot of them and her skill of slowing down a spar with her mind proved to be a wonderful secret to her benefit.  
Her father hugged her, which rarely ever happened, the day she set off for training camp. "You're a good fencer, Joan. Show them what a Ferguson can do." Joan worried about how her father would fare when she wasn't there to clean the house and make sure he was fed. She also worried greatly, after finally caving to going away, that she could come back a failure.  
Every day, Joan woke before the other girls in her dorm to use the showers. She did not need a repeat of what had happened at school, and besides, she needed to work harder and longer to prove to herself that she was better than every other girl here.  
She spent a lot of time running, weight training and practicing attacks without a weapon. The more active she was during the day, the less her mind would race when the lights went out. She became obsessed with making her father proud, and letting her family name reign again like an international marquee.  
There were a few girls, equally as driven as Joan, that she allowed herself to be friendly with. Joan had never had a real friend because she could not see the point or let herself be vulnerable enough, but since these girls had no current interests outside of what Joan perfectly understood, she did not reject invites for drinks or after hour swims.  
There was one girl, younger than Joan, that intrigued her. Amelia. She laughed when Joan made sarcastic remarks and when she would brush up against Joan at a bar or in their dorm, Joan's chest would feel incredibly tight. She slowly let herself trust this girl, who had not once made her feel anything other than wanted.  
When they sparred against each other, Joan enjoyed that this girl could sometimes beat her. She loved hearing the growl that this girl would sometimes emit when attacking, or that when they'd go for a run Joan loved that this girl would throw herself on the ground afterwards and laugh with exhaustion.  
When she called her father to update him about her progress and to tell her about her first friendship, he told her that she should not get invested. If she got invested, she could get distracted and if she got distracted, she could disgrace herself. Joan decided that he must be wrong.   
Each buzz that ended a match gave Joan a rise. She knew that good sportsmanship was important, but it was hard not to smirk under her mask. Her father's voice, whispering "Very good, Joan" came after every win. She simply refused to think about what he'd say to her if she was defeated. She attacked each time like a wild, wounded animal with nothing to lose. The audience's uproar was nothing if not distracting. She knew that her father had told her that he wouldn't waste his time attending until the semi-finals, and so she had to get there to prove to him that she was worthy. She found it harder and harder to concentrate during each match, and each foreign competitor was becoming harder to defeat. She was here. She was an Olympian, but she found that her composure was slipping ever so slightly with each passing day.  
Amelia would come to Joan's room almost daily to talk about their competitors tactics. This seemed to replenish her will to return the next day to continue her victorious streak. It was now the quarter-finals and both she and Amelia were the only Australian females still in for a medal. Joan found it odd that was she not at all jealous or competitive towards Amelia. She found that she wanted her friend to success just as much as herself.  
It was during one of their evening discussions that Amelia had reached over and grabbed Joan's hand. "I just hope that you win Gold, Joan. Your father would be so proud."  
Joan tightened her grip on Amelia's hand and felt her insides turn to melted chocolate. Joan leaned in and quickly gave Amelia a chaste peck on the lips, then waited expectantly with wide eyes. She smiled sheepishly at first but that soon faded.  
Amelia quickly and quietly pulled away. "Joan? Why did you do that?"  
"I...I." Joan was at a loss. "I thought you liked me."  
"Oh, Joan. I do. But I'm not gay. I like you as a friend, that's all."  
"Of course, of course. How callous of me for assuming." Her embarrassment enveloped Joan like thick tar.  
There was a long, awkward silence. "I'm not gay either."  
Amelia got up, "I think I should go, Joan. I'm sorry if I confused you."  
"Yes."  
She had read the situation wrong after all. Don't get invested or you will shame yourself. Joan realized then and there that Amelia was no longer a competitor she needed and actions would needed to be taken to accomplish this. It was that or go home a disappointment.  
It was not hard to call Nils and have him deliver a package containing a flavorless powder. Fairthful Nils always came through for a price.  
Joan brought it to Amelia's room a few days after the kiss that had ruined the first friendship Joan had ever had.  
"I brought you a soda. No hard feelings, Amelia. It was a simple mistake. I'm sorry." Joan's fake smile turned to one of true pleasure and Amelia willingly drained the bottle. It was both satisfying and heartbreaking to know she was ending this relationship for good. For her own good. She did not stay around to talk with Amelia. Instead, she went for a run and through the kilometers she imagined the look on Amelia's face when she was taken aside for a drug test, adamantly protesting that she was clean. An anonymous caller would request a drug test, of course. Something had been slipped to that poor girl and it would ruin her career.  
Joan could not have predicted that ending someone else's dreams would cause her anger and shame. She did not regret her actions, but they did cause her to be foolish and unpredictable. In the match that would determine whether she would enter the semi-finals and make her father proud, she got unnecessarily aggressive and knocked her opponent down with force. She could hardly accept when the referee held up the black card. An official had to escort her off the grounds.  
Her father was supposed to pick her up from the airport, but he never showed. It was a week before he would even look at her. "How could you?" Was all he could utter to her with disgust when he found it necessary that they should speak.  
Amelia had turned out to be a feint attack in disguise. Her father been right. Joan vowed never to compete in fencing ever again.


	6. Chapter 6

In the time following her shameful ejection, Joan fell into a deep depression. She would get up early in the morning to gather a glass of water from the kitchen and return to her room to spend the day holed up in a housecoat and swirling repetitive thoughts. If her father had noticed that she had lost almost twenty pounds off her already thin frame, nothing was mentioned. Months went by where Joan did not even leave the property. She would clean the house very late at night so that she did not have to face her father's looks, and sometimes she would venture into the woods behind their property to walk in the woods in the very pitch of night.Joan felt numb.  
She didn't want to die but she did not want to live either. This feeling of hopelessness was overbearing. She had nothing to look forward to now that the one thing she excelled in had been ripped from her fingers by her own hand.  
When things were desperate, she would call Nils but the calls would be very short and impersonal. She just wanted to talk to the one person who had proven to be reliable to her, no matter if he did not realize he was the only person who did not make her feel judged.  
The depression had however given Joan the time to teach herself chess, and learn basic Italian through the books she'd asked Nils to bring over. The books now were her only friends. She had no one, but she was not so far gone as to not realize that she should always be bettering herself.  
She found that in the time past her twenty fifth birthday she would accumulate long tomes of lists: reasons why she should kill herself, reasons why her father loved her even though he did not show it; things she should look forward to. The lists would litter her floor then be burned in her metal garbage can when her father was out.  
Joan did not know in that time of self-loathing that her father had been disgraced at the weakness of his daughter. Lawrence refused to believe that mental illness was for anyone but those who yelled in the streets about the apocalypse. This thing that Joan had become was surely someone who was sorry for themselves and lazy. She surely did all this to provoke his distaste. She had deeply shamed him on a global scale, and then had returned to become this pathetic sloth of a girl. She had refused to take a job or go to college. He'd even put some college application forms out for her, but they were never sent away. He sometimes wished that he'd never had her at all, and that thought did not always sadden him. It was when Joan had nearly stopped coming out of her room that he'd had enough. Something needed to done.  
Joan awoke with her father’s face mere inches from her own. She wanted to bolt upright, but with his lips curled into a snarl and his madman’s eyes, she instead pressed her head harder into her pillow. The bouquet of his expensive scotch apparent.  
“Dad?”  
Her father only blinked and opened his mouth open and closed silently like a fish.  
“Daddy?” Joan whispered. She was too scared to look away, but equally as frightened to continue staring at a face that looked wild and dangerous.  
“How could you do this to me.” Lawrence snarled. “You take and you take. You’re going to be a burden on me until I’m dead in the ground.” He paused momentarily and poked Joan hard in the chest in an even, steady rhythm, ““It’s your fault your mother’s dead. You took her from me. You were too weak then and drained her. You’re still so weak that you need to drain me.” Her father’s eyes narrowed, “you’re pathetic.”  
Joan’s lip began to quiver, “don’t say such things…”  
Her father came nose to nose with her, "you're a disappointment, Joan. You're an embarrassment. You are no longer my legacy.”  
A single tear rolled down her cheek, "I try..."  
Lawrence stood and scoffed, "You clearly don't try hard enough, Joan. Clearly."  
"What do you want of me?" Joan dared to ask. Her father said nothing, but his eyes bore into her like a drill. Lawrence had been so well for so long, but clearly he had snapped. It would be this conversation that would plant the seed of distrust in Joan.  
Early the next morning, Joan came to the breakfast table dressed and polished. Gone were her housecoat and greasy hair. She put a college application down in front of her father. "I'll go," was all she said. Joan figured that if she went away and things did not get better, she'd at least tried, then could kill herself and no longer be a burden to others. Living in a numb space was fine, but it was clearly upsetting her father and having that extra weight on her was more than she could take. She would go away to make him proud; so he'd love her again.

The following year, in Joan's second year at college, she had surprisingly found herself glad she had come. Away from her father and in her own apartment, Joan found that she could think about a future. She had signed up for a major in classics and literature, both which came very easily to her. Having books as her best friends growing up, had allowed her to expand her thinking and vocabulary. The skills she had learned in high school did not apply here. She rarely had to memorize anything, but instead of it becoming an emotional stress point, Joan found that being able to truly give her opinion and have it appreciated extremely gratifying. People actual wanted to hear what she had to say here. The more bold and original she was, she more her professors asked for her thoughts. She recognized that she could gladly become an academic, because no one expected her to live up to any standards here other than being brilliant. That she could easily do. When she was feeling up to speaking to her father on the phone, she did not have to lie about her accomplishments.  
She found that she spent a lot of time in her professors' offices. She would make up excuses to meet with them. She craved their approval and attention. Many of them were so much older and confident, that she couldn't help but find herself drawn to their assured power. Some days she wished she could bask in their attention like a cat in sunbeam.  
Joan was not used to the positive attention intelligence could bestowed upon her and it became a bit of an addiction. She never missed a class; she wrote down every word pouring from her professors lips; she turned in every assignment; and without fail volunteered for anything that was asked of her.  
Academia was giving Joan the confidence and passion that fencing had done once. Her father had never managed to distill the swelled feeling of acceptance that her peers and academic superiors imparted to her psyche. Knowing she was appreciated and wanted and valued was what Joan needed most in her poor healing heart.  
While taking her exams before Christmas break, a police officer interrupted and pulled Joan out.  
"We got a call about your father."  
Joan's heart had dropped. Her father surely must be dead. What had happened. "Yes?" She managed.  
"He was found wandering downtown with a weapon. You're needed. We couldn't get in contact with you as there was no phone number found and your father is not lucid. He's currently in the hospital."  
Her daddy was sick. Joan immediately packed a bag and drove home six straight hours to get to his bedside. The exam that she would have aced had been left behind without a second thought.


	7. Chapter 7

The grey hairs on Joan's temples began to grow in when she was twenty-six. She was not a virgin, but she had never been kissed.  
After she had abruptly left school, she had lived in a fog of denial that she would return as soon as her father's mental health was restored, but the longer she waited, she knew she'd never be able to go back. She had come back that day to the hospital to find her father, who had been stone-faced and sturdy for as long as she'd known him, frail and confused, lying stiff under the hospital-white sheets.  
"It's your fault for leaving me all alone," was the first thing he'd uttered to her after she had sat at his bedside while he slept.  
This was her life now: waking up before sunrise and praying that her father would be in a pleasant mood, and they could take a walk in the woods, talking about whatever he wanted to get off his burdened mind. On the days when she'd be woken up in the early hours by his cries and hollers, she knew that the day would spiral out of control. She'd have to hide herself from thrown water glasses and hands raised in anger; to listen to his rants and conspiracies and smile tightly so that he would not think she was judging him, even though, sadly, she was.  
Eventually a letter of expulsion came from the Registrar's office confirming that she'd left behind a promising life. The guilt she felt because of her growing resentment towards her father only added to the anger bubbling under the surface.  
The doctors discussed, while she listened in detached attention, that her father's years of alcoholism had given him "wet brain". His dementia was never going to heal itself, and Joan would need to be his caretaker. She had read through every book available on his brain's deterioration, and at the end of each closed book she'd cry in frustration. Though Lawrence's brain was rotting from the inside, Joan thanked God every day that he was still capable of taking care of his personal hygiene.  
It was in that year, after her father had gone to bed and Joan had scrubbed the house from top to bottom to distract herself, that she would sit alone at the kitchen table and drink openly from a vodka bottle. She realized how ironic it was that this was the only way she found she could fall asleep.

In the following year, Lawrence seemed to have more good days than bad. Joan knew this was extremely unusual, but did not take this as a sign of biblical intervention. She was just more appreciative that she did not have to worry about him wandering off. The good days that rolled together were always followed by a string of days where Lawrence would be utterly violent and venomous. He would sometimes talked to Joan like she were his sister and not his daughter. This always made Joan extremely uncomfortable because she knew Lawrence's sister died when they were children. There had been a time when he had threatened her with a fire iron to the eye because he thought she was plotting to put him in a nursing home.  
On the good days though, Joan could lock all the doors from the outside and run errands, or simply sit on the front stoop in silence. She'd made sure to hide her father's sabers and foils in the attic so that while she was gone he wouldn't get sentimental and swing them around, knocking over vases then getting angry with Joan that she'd broken their things.  
On good days, they could sit in the living room and play chess together. On tremendous days, she'd read her father the classics and he would smile at her while nodding ever so slightly. During these great days, she would invite Nils over so that her father could be with someone he trusted. She also did this so that after she'd put her father to bed, the two of them could sit on the stoop in silence while Nils smoked.  
Not much was said between the two normally, but on one night Joan dared to ask, "how much would you charge to off someone?"  
Nils had turned to her, blowing smoke at her face and grunted, "more than you could ever afford."  
Joan did not bother to explore that topic any further. She excused herself and went inside, leaving Nils alone on their step for all the world to see.

Shortly before Joan turned twenty-eight, Joan hired a part-time nurse and took a job as a legal assistant for a criminal lawyer. Nils had made the suggestion during one of their near silent stoop sittings. He'd said he knew a lawyer that needed help, and that Joan would do well to get out of the house. She didn't question it when the lawyer, a short, stocky man, hired her on the spot even though she had no previous office experience.  
She wanted to prove to herself that she could bring in an income, and be a contributing member of society. She'd grown tired of playing nursemaid, and Lawrence's bad days were occurring more frequently than she could take.  
On her first day of work, the lawyer had dropped a pile of papers on her desk and informed her that she would immediately need to learn how to forge the signatures of both himself and all those within these documents. Joan set herself busy at work. Memorization and perfection were her specialty. 


	8. Chapter 8

Sitting in on meetings turned out to be a tremendous way to discover the secrets of the underworld. Her employer, Peterson, did not believe in recording conversations for later dictation, so Joan discovered that she was needed to scribe for every low-life, murderer and swindler that passed through their doors. Joan had signed a confidentiality agreement, and even though she was an imposing presence in the room she knew never to give eye contact or give a hint that she was doing more than writing down notes, so that she could easily blend into the background. It was surprising what some people were willing to admit with a total stranger in the room.  
Peterson had unknowingly taught Joan the importance of having a few dirty police in your pocket. He never said this outright, of course, but there had been times when she was working from the photocopy room that she'd see an officer be slipped a wad of cash. Nothing would be said during these meetings she'd witnessed, but it seemed that those heavier hitting clients would suddenly have charges dropped. Same with journalists. Journalists were not to be trusted, as they could slander your good professional name, but having one that could spin a story to your benefit was of extreme importance. Joan made a mental note, regardless of her future employment, to have a few professionals on her docket.

At nights she would come home from the firm to relieve the nurse and tell her father about her day, regardless if he was listening or not. During one evening conversation, her father had stopped her mid sentence and put his hand on her shoulder.  
"Joan, could you please do me a favour?"  
Joan shook her head in confusion. Her father never talked to her like this, he demanded not asked, but it was not out of anger and so she wanted to see where this was going. "Sure."  
"You're turning into an old maid, aren't you, Joan? No man to call your own, except your crazy father."  
Joan smiled thinly, "I'm barely thirty, Dad. That's not an old maid."  
Her father snorted sarcastically, "it's heading that way."  
"What is it that you want? I'm not sure what you're getting at." Joan was quickly losing patience with this topic of conversation.  
"I want you to go out on a date. I want you to meet somebody because I won't be around forever. I want grand babies."  
Joan choked out a dry cough. Where on Earth had this come from? Just yesterday her father had accused her of selling their Ming vases and poisoning his food with toilet cleaner. She wasn't sure if he was aware of his demands, but she did not speak up.  
Joan tried to stand, but her father pressed into her shoulder. She'd agreed to go on a date, since surprisingly her father had already had someone picked out for her. He said it was a nice delivery boy that had brought Chinese take-away the previous week. Joan agreed to the arrangement only to appease him. She'd go on the date, pay her own way and leave the poor misguided dorba lonely at the end of the evening. If it made her father happy and he if he could actually remember their agreement the next day, it would be worth his approving look.  
A week later a light-haired man, younger than Joan, came by the house to pick her up in his rusty car. He had shaken her father's hand, although her father seemed unsure who this man even was. It had been a particularly difficult day. The nurse had a day off, and Joan had chased after her father who had gone between very strong lucid moment, reminding her of all the things she'd failed at, to mental breaks where he'd ask where Joan's mother was or demand to be taken to the pool hall even though the pool hall had burned down years ago. She'd stationed her father in front of the television while she dressed and put her hair up. She knew she would not be interested in this man, but that did not mean she would not at least make the effort to look like she'd tried.  
The evening was beyond painful. Joan had absolutely no idea about what to say to this man. She knew his name, his job, and that was about it. She tried to ask probing questions, but he would only stare at her chest or at the chest of the waitress and reply in mono-syllabic answers. She reminded herself that she did not have to enjoy the evening, just get through it.  
The man had drank a few beers during their meal, and didn't seem to get the signal that Joan did not want his hand on the small of her back when they made their way back out to the car. After Joan had stared down his final bite, she insister that she pay their dinner bill, so that she owed this man nothing.  
They had parked in front of Joan's house and when Joan tried to politely thank him for driving her home, the man had reached over and grabbed one of her breasts. Joan had frozen and looked down at the hand that was mashing at her flesh like a child moulding play-doh. Her lip curled up in disgust.  
"Take your hand off me." She'd demanded, but the man only climbed over the stick shift to grab at her further.  
Joan suddenly felt a cold grip of panic, she was not much bigger than this molester but in the enclosed space of the front car seat she had no way to truly defend herself. A flashback of the knife at her back came rushing back to her and she wanted to cry. She tried pushing his hands, but her blurred vision from her memories caused her to be weak. "You need to stop!" she'd pleaded.  
"Shut it, bitch. Your father said you'd be a hard ticket. Just take the only willing fuck you're ever going to get."  
_Her father knew about this. He suggested this and he knew about this._  
This realization allowed Joan to grab at the back of the man's head and bash his face off the dashboard. His face came back bloody as she opened the door and ran to the house. She did not think to lock the door and to her surprise the bastard had the gull to follow her in, tissue pressed against his face.  
She'd not stopped and ran to her room and slammed the door, locking it behind her and pressing herself against it. She could hear her father, strangely normal sounding, apologizing to the man who'd tried to force himself on her. She'd actually heard her father apologize, when in the past his very words had been 'an act against his flesh demanded retribution'.  
Joan cracked the door open to see her father pass that disgusting man a large wad of bill. "There's a little extra, for the nose." He'd said.  
Joan closed the door and sank to the floor. Her father had truly gone off the deep end. She vowed to never trust another man ever again in her life. Unless they were a tool for her use, they only proved to be dangerous.  



	9. Chapter 9

Shortly after the incident in the front seat, Joan had sat down during a lunch with Peterson and nonchalantly asked how easy it would be to get off on a charge of murder by association. She listened and when asked why she wanted to know, she simply dismissed it that a potential client had been asking at the reception desk. It turned out that either for the right price, or a respectful alibi could be found, it would be pretty easy for charges to be dropped. Peterson never thought twice and continued on with his lunch. Joan had smiled down into her salad. She needed to find an alibi.  
That year she decided she would start taking her father back to the fencing studio. She had made an arrangement with the owner to get a personal set of keys, so they could practice in private. She would plait her hair so tightly that it would bring tears to her eyes as she watched her father struggle into his kit. She never offered to help, even if his getting ready took longer than their practice would. Unless he was raising her hand to her in anger, she refused now to be touched or touch him. They came here so she could try and connect with her father in a way that she knew they both understood. It was a throw back to the past and she could allow herself to see her father in a positive light, where he was nothing but an excellent and respected athlete. Even in his age and mental state, Lawrence proved to still be a competent opponent. In here with cages down, they didn't have to give eye contact and she could freely attack him with the excuse that it was in a sport. If she connected too harshly, there was no one to wave a yellow card and tell her to tone it down. She could vent her anger at him in a way that was productive, but with the bursting emotions she could also find a small part of herself that connected to when she felt such pride and love from her father in this space. Joan's anger always won out though as she had vowed to never let this man hurt her any longer. Lawrence had mistakenly taken these invitations to spar as a peace offering. He had lost control. Joan knew that her father's state had to be attended to.

Joan had slowly began to accrue her father's antiques and art to deliver to a dealer. She asked Peterson for as many overtime hours as he could give her, and she offered to teach an adult fencing class on Sunday evenings. She knew the importance now of collecting wealth and kept every coin and dollar bill in her old duffel bag that once housed her childhood fencing kit. She kept a tidy notebook that listed an itemized account for each sale and after each purchase, the amount saved would be changed to a larger number. Joan knew this was still not enough for what she needed.  
It turned out that getting Lawrence out of the house to get some exercise had proved beneficial for his state. He still spent most of his days confused and living in the past, but he had surprisingly mellowed out. He began to speak kindly to Joan in a way that she had never experienced before. She still found herself recoiling from his touch, but only because the feelings inside her were so in turmoil. The father she always needed was starting to emerge after she had already made a decision for his benefit. She knew not to change her mind. Her past could not make up for this.  
On one particular day when Lawrence was living in a blur of time and space, he had asked her to come to his room after he had laid down for an afternoon nap. Joan had complied and had carried with her a cup of tea and the newspaper. He had asked her to sit on his bed and she did, but at the very edge beyond his touch.  
"Joan, I never told you this before but you have your mother's eyes." He leaned over and touched her hair, "and the same beautiful hair. She went grey early too, but it suits you. It makes you look regal."  
Joan couldn't help but melt a bit into his touch. "Thank you, Dad."  
"There's something you need to see, Joan. I need you to go up in the attic and look for a violin case. It's hidden behind a board in the wall. The board is marked with a small black 'x'. Pull it back, take out the violin case and bring it back here please. Don't open it until you return."  
Joan did as she was told and was surprised that she had never noticed the small mark on the wall, considering how much time she had spent up here taking expensive items her father would never notice gone.  
She passed her father the violin case and sat back down on the bed with her leg tucked under her.  
Joan's father creaked open the violin case and extracted the bow, passing it to her. "This was your mother's. She played for the Russian Philharmonic before I met her. She used that bow like it was an extension of herself. Truly beautiful."  
Joan's hand curled tightly around the hairs, all dry and brittle. Her father had never spoken to her of her mother. She never realized up until now that this was an unforgivable act on his part to hide a large part of Joan's history from her.  
"I want you to have it, Joan. It's probably too old now to play, but you should have it to remind yourself that your mother had been someone people admired. She was a real dark-haired beauty."  
The hairs on the bow dug further into her hand. "Thank you, Dad."  
"Open that little flap door. She used to keep rosin in there. Rosin's for the bow, you know."  
"Yes, I know what rosin is."  
"Open it then."  
Joan opened the flap door and quickly let it drop again. She brought her hand to her mouth and snapped her head to look at her father, who was likely dreaming of his long-dead love. Revealed was a giant roll of bills. Thousands, if not tens of thousands of dollars rolled up in an elastic band.  
"It's your inheritance, Joan. I figure you should have it now. My pension will pay for my inevitable funeral. You should use it to live a little."  
Joan closed the violin case without removing the money. The colour drained from her face as she reached over and grabbed her father's hand. "Thank you, Daddy."  
Joan closed her father's bedroom room behind him, then put the violin case in her room. She picked up the phone and dialed Nils.  
"You said I could never afford it, but I can. I need you to do me a a solid favor."   
She hung up the phone in a sickening clunk, knowing what she'd just ask would change everything forever.  



	10. Chapter 10

Joan was thirty-two when she mailed a letter in bold, block letters to Nils. It went into great detail how she wanted things done. She had reminded Nils to shave his head, glue down his eyebrows, clip his nails extremely short and remove his shoes outside. She'd learned from Peterson that if there was no genetic coding left at a murder scene, it was hard to tack a charge. If he were to get caught, though, she would pay his bail and his lawyer fees, but she hoped it would not come to that. She said she'd leave the basement window in the backyard unlocked. She wanted everything to be calm and quiet. No struggle, no fear, only an end to a tyrant.  
She'd put ten thousand dollars in a registered envelope with the letter and let it drop into the mailbox with an empty whoosh. There was no turning back now. Now it was real. Now she simply had to wait.  
Joan had arranged to teach a fencing class when Nils would come. She would have a room full of alibis, so there would be no question that she was not a witness. She was surprised to find hot tears pour down her face behind her cage as she was sparing with a student. Inside she felt numb. She was unsure why her body was outpouring these emotions, and it confused her. She liked the numb feeling. This other thing was a distraction that was unwanted.  
She took her time arranging her kit in her bag. She drove home so slowly that she likely could have walked faster. When Joan pulled up in front of the house, the living room light was on, giving the impression that nothing was amiss. Joan knew better.  
Joan entered the house, put her keys in the bowl, put on her slippers and walked slowly to the living room. She tried to mentally prepare herself for what she would see, but when she turned the corner she was surprised at how relieved she felt.  
If Joan ignored the red slash that had pooled down Lawrence's front, it looked just like Lawrence was only taking a nap in his favourite chair. Nils had done his job properly. There was no sign of fear or struggle. Nils had cut deep and hard and quickly so Lawrence's death took but mere seconds. He did not have time for his life to flash before his eyes.  
Joan walked slowly over to the bookcase and scanned the titles.  
"You told me once when I was a child that a life without control was a dangerous thing. You said this with love, but look what loving me has done to you. To me."  
She pulled _Death of Ivan Illyich_ from the shelf and made her way to the chair that had always housed her most powerful influence and sat at its feet. "I hope you can forgive me, Dad. I had to save you from yourself." Joan opened the book and read for an hour before she thought it was time to call the police.  
It was easy for Joan to lie to the police. She had cried with hiccups and moans as the police had come round to investigate. No one suspected what had happened here other than a botched burglary. Joan had also lied and told them that the things she had long since sold to various dealers had been stolen. She hoped that they would not bother going to research the items, and she was right. She had said though her haze that she did not want the things back. The insurance would pay for them, and having them back would only remind her of the murder. This fact, was true.  
She planned the funeral with upmost care. Everything had to be perfect. A great man had to be remembered. The people who attended the service had not witnessed Lawrence's later years, and Joan gladly spoke of old times when the General was a man of honour. As she read the eulogy and looked at the photo she had chosen to adorn his casket, she quietly wept. She could be controlled no more.

The year following the funeral, Joan had an industrial garbage bin ordered to the house and she cleaned out every single last thing in the house that had belonged to Lawrence. Every thing except for the chair with the faint flecks of blood still on and his wedding ring that she had removed before he'd been buried. She'd taken that ring, along with another wedding ring she'd found hidden deep in her father's armoire and had them melted down. The found ring had been engraved with the year her parents had been married. When Joan tried to put in on, it would only fit on her pinky. Her mother had been a much smaller boned woman.  
She'd removed the pegs from her mother's violin and had a jeweler dip them in the melted gold of both wedding rings. Now she had a visual reminder of her parents together when she was sure they had been in love.  
Shortly after she had made a physical purge, she followed her father's advice and put in her resignation at the law firm. She took the leftover money that she had been given and booked a ticket on the Trans Siberian railway starting in Moscow and ending when she felt she'd had enough time to travel through a country that had loved her mother well. She could begin late in life to connect with a woman she never got to know.


	11. Chapter 11

Joan walked towards the mouth of a giant beast that was tagged as Yaroslavskaya and was swallowed up into the barrage of Cyrillic. Her VISA hid in the depths of her breast pocket and her clammy grasp held vintage brown luggage. She kept her cash in her sock. The flight from Australia to Russia had been long and Joan actually dreaded the thought of sitting again.  
Studying her phrase book on the flight over had proved to be nearly useless as she approached the desk. The clerk spoke too fast and eventually Joan got frustrated and held the book out and pointed hard at what she wanted. She was handed her ticket and schedule, but there had been a moment when the clerk had raised his voice to her that she'd wondered if she'd made a mistake about wanting to venture outside of her comfort zone.  
Joan had booked a first-class cabin and had paid for both bunks. The thought of being stuck in such an enclosed space with a stranger had terrified her. The mere inkling of having someone leer over her as she slept made her nauseous. The fact that she'd now have to budget carefully for the rest of the trip was fine as long as she could lock the door and go to sleep without worry.  
The first leg of the tour had been nothing special. She'd gazed out the window, taken the occasional picture, and occasionally left her cabin to get hot water for tea. She hid and refused to look at her phrase book. Not being able to figure out Russian syntax was causing her too much frustration. Joan was escaping her life and responsibilities back home, but so far the retreat she'd hoped would set her towards what she would do upon her return was wielding no results.  
It was on their first stop at Yaroslavl that Joan was thrust into the real world again among people. She found that the fruit she'd packed had gone soft, and with a tight face she decided to venture to the platform with a small handful of rubles. Old women rushed her, pushing food towards her. Joan recognized a few of the words they said, and eventually held out what money she had and exchanged everything she'd held for as much food as she could carry.  
Sitting Indian style on the top bunk, Joan shoveled food into her mouth. The flavors were so different than what she was used to. Had her mother eaten these things, bought from little Babushkas who earned their money from tourists and businessmen needing a home cooked meal? She wished in a crushing moment that she had known her mother. She'd sat in the genealogy department of the Melbourne library before she'd left and traced her mother's maiden name back to her grandmother. She'd learned that her Nanna had married a Russian and that is why her mother had come back to play in her paternal homeland. Sadly, that's all she knew. She could guess, she could make something up, but all she felt she could do now was travel kilometer upon kilometer in the hopes that she'd somehow become closer with the woman who'd born her.  
The next day Joan decided to go to the dining car. She's paid to learn about a culture, and after her first night sleeping in a cot that was too small for her, she decided to go immerse herself. An old woman, without invitation, sat across from her and with an urging smile pushed a deck of cards towards her. That is how Joan first made a connection without speaking another person's language. From her she'd taken up smoking for the first time, and learned how to play 5-Crown. Having sat in on many a poker game with her father had taught Joan some shuffling tricks that made the old woman shriek with laughter. Joan surprisingly found upon waking the next day that she hoped the woman would be there waiting for her at their table with her gaping smile. She was.  
At Omsk they stopped for repairs and Joan decided to walk the platform. At this point she had taken interest in her phrase book and listening to the language had helped her understand dribs and drabs from the explosion of noise around her. While she walked, her eyes fell upon a police officer with a face as hard as steel. His cheer bones could have cut the cool air. Joan was unsure why she found herself fascinated, but when the officer turned and their eyes met, she found herself blushing. Little did she know at that stop she would meet someone who would help her discover the path she was so desperately trying to find. 


	12. Chapter 12

Real Russian vodka proved to be stronger than what Joan was used to at home. It could also be the fact that she'd bought what she'd been drinking from a shady looking vendor going through the train cars when they left Omsk. The bottle was green and unmarked, and very likely brewed in someone's shed. For the past two evenings, Joan would emerge from her cabin with bottle in hand and sit in the dining car to drink with everyone else. Little was said between Joan and the others, but the men liked to smile at her when she'd slyly wink and swig straight from the bottle without grimacing. She did not trust them, but the weird pride she felt from their approval allowed her to join in a few of their chess games. There was also the fact that, because of her size, she could keep up with their drinking, and so the men would slap her heartily on the back and laugh.  
Joan had been learning a Russian song from the men and allowing herself to be loud when she saw that Russian police officer out the corner of her eye, standing at the car's door, scanning the crowd. Their eyes met and in Joan's bold drunkenness, she smiled at him. She knew she did not like men, but she had an odd feeling about this one and she was unsure why. The officer did not smile back, but approached her with intent. Joan did not have her VISA on her and began to get up to go get it, when the police officer came from behind her and grabbed her by the arm.  
"You drunk," the officer said in a heavy accent. The voice was very clearly feminine.  
Joan looked around to see that the men had turned and were now ignoring her. She didn't realize that being the only non-Russian female in the car would prove to be a problem. The officer began to speak to her in Russian in a reprimanding tone and Joan only repeated an apology in Russian. As the officer lead her out of the car, she gripped her arm and surprisingly used a tone that was low and smooth.  
"I watch...Omsk." The officer's brass buttons pushed into Joan's back, "krasivaya."  
Joan had no idea what she'd said, but she got the tone and stopped resisting completely and instead began to lead the officer back to her bunk. She'd surely still need to see her VISA.  
The officer pushed her gently into her cabin and closed the door behind them. They stood eye to eye. Joan had never had to look up at another woman before and it was surprisingly nice. She took the VISA from her handbag and went to pass it to the officer. She tried to explain that she'd forgotten it but the officer only pushed it back into Joan's hand.  
"American?"  
"No. Australian."  
The officer raised her eyebrows and nodded, then unbuttoned the two buttons of her uniform jacket.  
"Alone?"  
Joan was now unsure where this was going. She was drunk, she thought maybe she had passed some invisible line of Russian policy or law. Would she be arrested? Surely a woman alone could still enjoy themselves. Joan had never had issue feeling unsafe alone before, but now she was unsure. The one thing she was not unclear about was how much she loved the grey uniform on the body in front of her. That uniform immediately made her want to be good. It was nothing like the officer uniforms back home. Joan suddenly felt a chill.  
The officer's hand shot forward and grabbed Joan's VISA then flipped it out. "Ferguson?"  
Joan nodded.  
"Australian. Ferguson. Krasivaya."  
The officer's tone. Her manly features. Everything about this moment made Joan feel weak. The fact that she could not express herself only make things more curious.  
She was passed back her VISA and their fingers touched. The officer's hand grabbed hers and brought Joan close. She whispered Russian to her, but Joan understood nothing but the tone. She melted. This had never happened before. Someone of power, someone with authority was taking an interest in her. She cared not a wink that she understood nothing that was being said. She knew that homosexuality was illegal in Russia. She did not want to assume anything, but in this moment she was sure that this butch woman was saying very nice things to her and she liked what was being said regardless of the language barrier.  
"Pozhaluysta?" Joan knew this word and decided to give it a try. She said it low and had a hard time maintaining eye contact, she looked at the officer's name tag instead.  
The officer's hand again shot forward but went to Joan's breast, roughly handling it. Joan's breath hitched. She kept her eyes on the name tag and allowed herself a single groan.  
"Shmara," the officer tutted then grabbed Joan under her chin and brought her face up to meet hers. "Bad girl." She leant in and kissed Joan hard.  
A lightbulb switched on deep in Joan's brain. All the jeers and taunts all through her life had lead to this moment. She finally understood why she felt squirmy way back when she'd found that magazine in the woods. She had that same feeling while another woman's hot lips were on hers. She was a lesbian. There was no shame here. It was secretive and she knew she'd never see this woman again, but there was absolutely no shame here. Joan kissed her back.


	13. Chapter 13

The train trip Joan had hoped would help her forget her past, had actually affirmed it. Every confused feeling she'd ever had and pushed down deep inside her had been allowed to crawl out of its black pit. She could finally come to terms with what she was. Who she was. That night there had been no more than kissing and some rough handling through clothing, but afterwards Joan had stared at the ceiling in her bunk and ran through each incident in her history and recognized the red flags. She could not confirm her sexuality for certain because her mistrust of men ran so deep within her, but she did know what made her insides warm. Her sexuality could sit now like a fragile figurine on a shelf within her, still delicate, but on display.  
On that same night, Joan had also made another life-changing decision. She wanted, no needed, to replicate the feeling in others that the officer's uniform had given her. She wanted others to quake in her presence with the need to behave. It wasn't just that though; the poverty and crime she'd witnessed on this short trip was not a localized phenomena. Crime was everywhere. She knew that first hand from her time with Peterson, but she could be part of that in a way that could help the general population. She could put on a uniform and demand respect. She could don the blue and make a difference.  
Before flying home, Joan made a final stop in Moscow. She bought tickets to the Philharmonic orchestra, dating the night of her thirty-third birthday. She would sit in the same theater where her mother had played and listen to the same acoustics that never changed within a concert hall. She'd gone and bought a black evening gown, she'd used the little money she had left to get her long tresses done up elegantly and her lips jeweled red. Joan was unaware that when she walked through the doors of that hall, men and women alike turned their heads as she breezed past.  
She took her seat alone and waited til the lights dimmed.The trip had not taught her anything about her mother, but this would allow Joan to connect with a part of her own history. The violin in her living room would have real meaning.  
The music had moved her profoundly. Joan had focused her attention on one violinist in particular in her long black dress and jet black mane streaked heavily with silver. She would have been roughly the same age as her mother if she were alive. She pretended for one moment that it was her mother and she could witness her spectacular talents before this crowd. Each symphony piece pulled on different emotions in Joan. By the final movement, hot tears poured down her cheeks. She wept for her motherless childhood, for all the nurturing she'd missed out on, and who she could have turned out to be; someone better, someone not as broken.  
As she sprang from her chair with heartfelt gratitude, she thought she heard a familiar voice in her ear. "Wipe your tears. Pull yourself together, Joan. Don't be an embarrassment.".  
She used the back of her hand to wipe her face quickly and obediently without a second thought. The outpouring of emotions that had for a moment seemed cathartic, had also brought out the small voice of her father for the first time. It would not be the last.

After Joan had unpacked from her vacation, she'd spread the pictures she'd taken during her trip on the kitchen table. She'd photographed scenery: gorgeous rivers, beautiful architecture, mountains and snow, but mostly there were pictures of people: poor people, broken people, prostitutes and deranged. Joan took pictures of everyone that seemed off, because it interested her. She'd captured something in their eyes that scared her.  
On top of those photographs she dropped the Yellow Pages and dialed the number for the Victoria Police Academy.  
"Hello, I'm calling to inquire about the cost of tuition and when your next session starts?"


	14. Chapter 14

Exams were easy. Joan knew how to colour-code for effective memorization, and just like in secondary school, all they wanted was to see if you could memorize laws, codes, or whatever else needed regurgitation. She easily pulled herself to the top of her class with her intellectual abilities. It was not even hard, which she found somewhat disappointing.  
The physical stuff was only slightly trying, but all Joan needed to was to stretch out the muscles, to remind her body what it was capable of. She hardly had difficulty outrunning the pack, as she was the most athletic and intimidating of the women in her graduating class. Her instructors seemed to enjoy putting her in the men's crew because of her size and the way she could easily clear a path with her body language. Her instructors recognized an alpha female when they saw one, and they used it to their advantage. Because of this, once again, the women stayed well clear of Joan. She didn't care if it was jealousy. She didn't care if they just didn't like her. She wasn't here to make friends.  
Joan had no one to watch her walk across the stage and accept an award for her exemplary performance. She tossed her uniform cap with the others, but she was curiously unenthusiastic. Who was she doing this for? Everything before had been to please someone else. No family meant no reassurances.  
Joan found out the day after graduation that she would be transferred to Adelaide for her probationary period. Her new name tag displaying: Constable Ferguson, could easily be retracted if she did not put forth her best effort. The realization that she'd have to leave but for a moment caused Joan to panic. She would have to move from the house she grew up in. Sure, she'd been away for training, but this would be an extended period. The logical part of her knew that it would make the most sense to sell the house. All at once, a calm came over her. Since her father's death, Joan would bolt upright in the night, thinking she was hearing him cry out for her. Sometimes when she would be sitting at the kitchen table, drinking alone, she thought she could see him out of the corner of her eye, but when she'd turn to look there would be nothing and no one there. A fresh start elsewhere might be exactly what Joan needed.

Because of her potential, Joan had not been partnered with another rookie but with someone on the verge of retirement. A veteran who had seen it all. All the black corroded sickness of man that prowled the streets. He had the most foul mouth that Joan had ever encountered. He called her names that most people would find extremely insulting. Many others had asked for a partner transfer, but Joan realized that this was the only way old Wilson had of showing he cared for her. Somehow in a Pavlovian way, being put down by Wilson would cause Joan to smirk in self-satisfaction.  
Wilson taught her the power of silence. He was not a large man, but his presence could be felt a mile away. While an accused would spat at him, he would take a step back with arms crossed and say nothing. Holding your ground and saying nothing was an excellent way to let the other dig themselves a very deep grave.  
"You should either get yourself a dyke haircut Joan, or put it up tight, cause one day one of these fuckers will rip it from your scalp."  
Joan had always put her hair in a tight plait, just like when she used to stick it under a cage, but Wilson had been right. During an alternation with a group of inebriates, they had taken advantage of the long tail down her back and had pulled. It was so immature and a playground attack, but the next day before work Joan had wound her hair up into a bun so tight that it pulled at the sides of her face. When catching a look at her reflection in a storefront, she saw that the hair scraped away from her face made her look austere and unapproachable. She liked it.  
There had been times when Joan was called to scene where she would freeze in her tracks. The fear in a woman's face after a rape, or the manic anger of a man as he screamed, "she was asking for it, the bitch!"; the dead drug addicts discarded in alleyways. Joan had been told enough stories, but there was nothing that could prepare someone for seeing the very hellishness of humanity. What made it worse, was when she saw the depths of depravity it made her feel like choking the life out of whoever had caused the pain in others. Joan felt too much empathy for the victims in her job. That was an easy way to get burn out, but she couldn't help herself. She could easily look at Wilson to see what caring too much did to people. Wilson self-medicated. He needed to forget what he'd seen and what he'd done in the better name of the law.  
The gloves came on her thirty-fourth birthday from Wilson. He passed them to her with a firm pat on the knee. "Keep them on when you're going to a domestic or assault. It'll make you look like a hard-ass, but it's a barrier between you and them." Wilson held up his arthritic hands, flush with scars. "Their evil will absorb into you if you don't learn to protect yourself."  
Joan slipped them on with a flex. They hugged her skin. They felt like armor. No one could touch her now.

Joan had been working as a Constable for two years when she had been pulled into her sergeant's office. Wilson had retired at that point and, as a rule, Ferguson worked alone. She'd refused a seat as she was confused why she'd been asked there. Her arrest record was irreproachable. Joan worked as many over-time hours as she was legally allowed. She spent extra time upgrading whenever there was an offer. Going home to the empty condo she'd bought was so lonely. She'd rather help keep the population safe. Risking her own safety was for the greater good.  
"Joan, I wanted to discuss some issues that have been brought to my attention."  
Joan said nothing and waited.  
"I've been told by others that your interactions with the local community have been less than stellar."  
Joan raised her eyebrows.  
"Frankly, Joan, I've been told by others that you scare the shit out of people."  
Joan again said nothing.  
"There is no doubt that you are a driven police officer, but you need to smile more. You are playing in to the stereotype of scary cop. This is not an official verbal warning, but you are the face of the Adelaide police force. You need to try harder to look pleasant."  
Joan crossed her arms just like Wilson had taught her and smiled. "It's just that I see so many re-offenders roaming about. How is it possible for me to be cheerful when I see how poorly the prison systems are run. The criminals out there see prison as a free meal ticket. I feel like most days we're putting out fires with gasoline, Sir."  
"Well then, Constable Ferguson, perhaps you should look into changing to corrections. With your work-ethic, I'm sure you'd be very useful."  
Joan's smile morphed into one more genuine. If she could nip criminal behavior in the bud and rehabilitate criminals before they were released, she'd be performing a great public service. Certainly Joan had the potential to do great things within the system.  
"Sir, would you write me a letter of recommendation ?"


	15. Chapter 15

The selection process included a psychological evaluation and a personality questionnaire. They dared ask her about her father, and how his passing would affect her around murderers. The psychologist, self-righteous and pig-faced had read her file and brought up subjects that had nothing to do with her capabilities. Joan had real difficulty answering pointedly. She could and did not trust a stranger who thought they could understand her from a single observation. This man who wanted to pick her brain stood between her and her chosen path.  
In a moment when she had bitten the inside of her lip bloody trying remain from storming from the room, she heard a small voice, "Remain calm, Joan. Give him what he needs to hear. Explode and you'll ruin it for yourself."  
She forced a thin smile and leaned forward into the psychologist's professional bubble. She answered everything the way it needed answering. All check boxes ticked, all comments positive. She shook his hand at their end of their interview, purposefully grasping it harder than was necessary.

Joan had been admitted to Blackmoor. The beige uniform did nothing to flatter her shape, but she was not there to show off for prisoners or anyone else for that matter. She'd finally hooked into a career path that suited her. When she walked the avocado-green walls, she knew she had found her right place. Finally, Joan appreciated the way her father had raised her. Everything here was predictable. Things were regimented, scheduled and organized. Any issues could be dealt with a trip to the slot. The inherent sureness that came with this position was more than Joan ever dreamed of. Within these walls it was a simple equation that action required an equal and immediate reaction. The simplest mind, even here behind bars, could come to fear a consequence if it was consistent.  
All prisoners were more or less the same. At times, however, an individual or two needed the odd reminder as to why they were behind bars. Joan knew that when someone felt comfortable enough to sass back, her upper hand was slipping. This meant that she'd have to pull on the well-loved gloves that she'd worn in her past life. Now though, instead of using them as armor for protection, she used them as a threat. A low rumble of a rumor traveled through the halls about what happened when Ferguson pulled on the gloves, but if anyone witnessed it they weren't talking. Ferguson had started the rumor herself by slipping a known lagger a tenner. Use the tools around you her father had once told her. Joan surely did use any and all tools to her advantage.  
Everything about Ferguson prowling the prison yard made the prisoners give way. It was just like back in high school, but now she had the power to isolate an individual if she thought it necessary.  
When days seemed to blend into each other, Joan had been there long enough to notice the rumblings of a fight before it even happened. She'd gotten very good at picking up on acronyms and code between the prisoners, and was able to consistently shut down schemes. The Governor pulled her into the office on a regular basis to congratulate her for this or that accomplishment.  
"You'll move up the ranks quickly, Ferguson. You have a gift."  
Joan arrogantly knew it without a doubt.

Before long, Joan had earned a reputation as being a fair but firm guard. That being said, only the newbies or the insane dared trying Joan's patience. She knew she was in the proper career right down to the very core of her being, but there were days when she could see that some of these ingrates had no intention of becoming rehabilitated. Those inmates blackened the reasoning as to why Joan had chosen to get into corrections, and it irked her to no end. Those individuals did not deserve the hot meals and comfortable beds provided to them by the State. When she would go to bed at night, after a particularly trying day with those who chose not to help themselves, she imagined all the ways that Joan could _convince_ them to think otherwise.  
It was no surprise to Joan when she'd been given clearance to perform strip searches, lead cell tosses or spend hours going through CCTV footage. She'd not been there long enough to earn this, but her Governor trusted her implicitly. Just as he should.


	16. Chapter 16

After Joan had been working at Blackmoor for three years, she got a call out of the blue from Nils. He just wanted to let her know that he'd moved back to Victoria. Enough time had passed that Joan could actually listen to his voice and feel nostalgic. For so long thinking of his name brought her nothing but shame; for what she'd asked him to do. She'd known Nils almost her whole life, and the years in between what had happened and now were too long. On the other end of the phone, Joan realized that Nils was her longest and only friend. What type of friend he was, she was unsure, but he was unfailingly reliable, money or not.  
What Joan did not know though, was that after Nils had performed his paid task he had seriously considered driving his car off a bridge. Lawrence had been like a father-figure to him, and a friend. They'd laughed together, gotten drunk together, shared racy stories. It had been good times. He'd seen Lawrence in good times, and later on in bad. He had tried to convince himself that it was the money, always the almighty dollar, that drove him to end Lawrence but that was not it. He'd seen how much Joan's father caused her to hurt, and in the end he knew that was he did was not for money but because he was the only one willing able to do what Joan could not. Their relationship did not contain love, but deep familiarity for seeing each other for what they were. That meant something to him.

One hot afternoon, Joan had been assigned to collect the new inmates for processing. By that time, she'd been promoted to Deputy Governor. All her hard work had paid off in such a short time.  
Joan stood with arms crossed, coolly staring down woman after woman as they were escorted past her. When she went to follow what she thought was the last, she heard another set of feet hop down from the back of the van. When she turned, her breath caught in her throat. A small dusky creature stared back at her with timid eyes. Joan had to shake her head before telling the inmate to hurry along.  
The process of strip-searching was actually quite boring. Every body looked relatively the same, and there was nothing sexual about making sure no cavity held contraband. The same script was repeated time and time again. It was a position that needed clearance, but most times Joan wished she did not have to go through with this. Seeing naked bodies generally made her uncomfortable, regardless of the context. A shiver went through her mixed with dread when the trembling inmate was brought before her.  
She went through the process, but found herself trying to be as delicate as possible. She actually found herself apologizing for touching the inmate's more intimate areas, despite herself. Joan found that she had a hard time looking at this woman's naked body: her breasts veined heavily, her hair spilling around her like a dark halo.  
Suddenly, the inmate pitched forward and vomited. She apologized profusely, wiping her mouth on the back of her bare arm. Joan passed her tissues from her pocket and continued the search. "Are you ill? Do you have the flu? Maybe you should go to medical."  
"No, ma'am, it's morning sickness."  
Joan stopped cold. 

When prisoner RJ-171930 was processed and admitted to cell block D, Joan puttered around near the kitchens before stealing inside. She had grabbed a few small packages and stashed them in her pocket before anyone noticed. She marched the halls to D block, a vicious look on her face so she would not be stopped.  
Joan approached the cell door and could see the prisoner lying in bed, her shoulders heaving with sadness. Joan carefully opened the door and closed it silently behind her. The woman bolted into a sitting position and wiped her eyes.  
"I'm sorry."  
Joan fiddled with the packets in her pocket, unsure as to where to look. Finally, she took a step forward and thrust them at the small woman.  
"For your stomach."  
The cracker packets were quickly retracted and put beside her on the bed.  
"Thank you."  
Joan nodded and went to turn.  
"I regret everything I've done to land myself here. Prison is no place for a baby." The young woman sobbed.  
Joan went to put her arm out to touch the inmate's shoulder. She felt such a strong need to comfort, but professionalism reigned and she pulled it away quickly. "Come now, you'll manage."  
The inmate nodded sadly which caused a small pain in Joan's chest.  
"Morning call is at 7am. You'll need to be standing outside your cell. Goodnight."  
Joan went home that evening and sat at her computer. She read up on first-trimester pregnancy and health. She took mental notes. The new inmate was but a child having a child. Someone had to take care of her. Joan made sure to ask the librarian at the prison to keep a collection of books on pregnancy in rotation at all times. As Deputy, no one dared ask her reasoning. 

On the drive home a week after processing the new inmates, Joan had to pull her car to the side of the road. She felt a panic rise in her throat. This new inmate was truly regretful, and was willing to face the consequences even if that meant raising a child in prison. This thought made Joan slightly sick. There was hope for this inmate. If Joan tried very hard and with persistence, she could shine this woman up like a new penny. She could make her as good as new before she was released back into society. This woman could let Joan see hope in her job again, and that gave her such an overwhelming feeling of happiness.  
Joan knew better than to find excuses to go visit D block, but once when she had been assigned to do a morning count, she had heard a very small voice follow her as she walked past.  
"I think you'd look less scary with your hair down."  
When she had been out of view from the prisoners, she raised her hand to her bun and looked into a mirror. Something had to be done. Joan wanted only to please her.

Once a month, Joan had Nils around to her apartment. They'd sit on the step and share a bottle of vodka between them, smoking from his pack of cigarettes. Generally nothing was said between the two, just like long ago. Presence was all that was needed.   
They'd get drunk, finish the pack and then Joan would get up and call Nils a cab to take him home. This ritual had been going on since he'd called Joan to let her know he'd come back. It was nice to know that words were not needed and they could fill the air with silence. On this particular night though, Joan spoke up.  
"I met someone at work."  
Nils grunted and puffed on his cigarette.  
"I think I could really help her."  
Joan lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The usual silence hung heavy. The porch light flickered above them.  
"She's beautiful, Nils." Joan had wished she had not allowed those words to spill forth, but Joan knew that Nils did not judge. It was not his place.  
"Don't shit where you eat, Joan."  
Joan scowled hard. "You sound like Dad."  
A harsh scoff barked from Nils' smokey mouth. "We both know that's not true."  
Joan allowed her shoulder to lean against his. The two of them would always be connected with their secret.  
She threw the short butt into the hedge and tapped another from the box. She hummed a few bars of an overture to break the nothingness. Cars passed while their cigarettes looked like two red eyes in the dark.  
Finally, Nils spoke up. "What's her name?"  
It would be the first time Joan had spoken it aloud. She smiled.  
"Jianna."  
The End.


End file.
